lesbian lebanon osashob

Should I Tell Her?

Simply the mention of her name was enough to make my heart flutter. I’d call her, or she’d call me to hang out or go have a drink. She didn’t have a car at the time, so I always picked her up. I’d miss-call her when I arrived, and wait for her to come down from the fourth floor of her building. I could feel my heart rate speeding up each time I drove to her apartment. And when I parked below to wait for her, I was always so nervous and excited. I could feel the tension rising slowly but steadily with every passing second. A tension punctuated each time she emerged from her building by sharp stabbing/tickling feelings in my stomach that knocked my breath right out of me, also known as a severe case of the butterflies.

She told me often enough how comfortable she was with me, we were close. We saw each other often and each time we did the conversation flowed effortlessly. To be honest, so many of our conversations were about men. My ex, her ex, that guy at the bar ogling her with his eyes. We talked about lots of things, and the fact that she’d been with a girl before was one of them. She didn’t identify with any sexuality label, but since that one girl had gone out with men exclusively.

Whenever we spent time together I wanted to tell her I was interested in her, but how could I? First off, we had a lot of friends in common. If anything were to happen between us they would eventually have to know. Not only would they have to know, but things would change if we were a couple. I’d think that, then I’d notice how far ahead of myself I was getting. I could tell her I was interested only to be rejected, but that would also have an impact on the group.

But then again, I’m not really talking about the real reason behind my hesitation am I? The truth of the matter is that for the first time I found myself interested in a woman seriously. I wasn’t just thinking about a fling, or something in passing. I knew her very well, and I loved her. I was in love with her. If I were to try for something with her it would be real, a relationship. And what kind of relationship would that be?

One of my favorite things about being with my ex, a man, was his family. In short, I was seen as his significant other and someone important, and I was welcomed into the family. The same applied for him; he often spent time with me and my family and they knew who he was to me.
That could never happen if I were in a lesbian relationship. I would not be invited as a plus one to weddings or to any Christmas dinners. I wouldn’t be able to invite her to our yearly family get together in the village; I’d have to go it alone and bite my tongue when my cousins started boasting about their fiancées and swallow down the fact that I think she takes the lead in that lot by far.

How can you be a real part of someone’s life when they have to deny your existence to their family? I don’t mean to criticize or belittle the many people who have had to do that, but one can’t deny how difficult it would be. I could never tell my parents if I were in a same-sex relationship, never. My father is old, and has a weak heart which often misbehaves when he’s stressed. I am terrified of what telling him could do to him.

And what’s more, I am an only child and my parents have been dreaming about my wedding for years now. They speak of it often, of how happy they will be when they know I have a good man to share my life with. They joke about how they will spoil their grandchildren rotten. And although I know that my life is my own, I am also weighed down by the fact that if I were to live my life the way I want to I would be a great disappointment to them. And although I don’t care for the opinion of society, or what people say behind my back, my parents do. I don’t dare to imagine what they would have to go through if I were to come out.

If I move forward with her, and my advance is met with similar interest, I’d be committing myself to a lifetime of lying to my parents and the world. I would have to give up simple joyful things, such as the sight of my father dancing at my wedding. And maybe what doubles down on the brakes for me is that asking her to be with me would be asking her to give up the same things.

Is love enough in the face of all that? Is it worth it? I can’t answer that. I can’t say that being with her is worth lying to my family or losing them. I can say that when we’re apart, I worry about these things. Reasons why I shouldn’t be with her flood my mind, and I feel powerless to confront them.
But when I’m with her, these worries seem trivial. Actually, that is an understatement. When I am with her, I worry about nothing and I’m the happiest version of myself. And that version of myself is not risk-averse.

-Yakhne

Advertisements
lesbian lebanon osashob

Everything is Different in the Morning

“How did we get here?” I asked her, my hands around her waist and my face close to hers.
“Does it really matter?” she whispered back.

I guess it didn’t really matter. I was scared, but happy. She kissed me again and we lay down on the bed in my small room in Ashrafieh. Before we knew it, our clothes that reeked of a mix of vodka, cigarettes, and sweat absorbed from the nightclub were in chaos around us. I found myself on top, my lips making their way down her body, from her neck to her thighs. I had done this a hundred times in my fantasies. Theoretically, I knew what I was doing. Technically, in my drunken haze, I might have stumbled around a bit. I don’t really remember. I remember we laughed a lot. I remember it was fun… Intense, passionate and fun. My eyes never left her face, constantly looking for signs of approval. Everything she did encouraged me to go on.

I was holding myself back from telling her everything. That I’ve watched her every day for the last three years, in class and out, devouring every small detail of her face and body: her long black hair that constantly looks like it was tied together in a haste, with a few rebellious curls always setting themselves away from the bunch. Her big brown eyes that can relay a thousand intimate messages in one glance. And her soft hands! Uncontrollably and chaotically waving around as she spoke, emphasizing every word that came out of her lips. How that annoyed me sometimes! But I loved it nonetheless because it was part of her. And the number of freckles on her shoulders: twenty-four. (Actually, now I’m just exaggerating to show you how infatuated I was. She doesn’t have freckles. But she does have one beauty mark on the lower left side of her neck.)
She was loud, strong, ambitious, extremely intelligent, and confused most of the times. And I was hooked.

Before you point your finger at me and yell “stalker”, let me clarify that, in between these unusually long periods of me just staring at her, we were friends. We had hit it off during the first couple of weeks of university, and had become very close. Other than the usual “talking about everything” that is the backbone of every relationship, our friendship also consisted of occasionally getting drunk and stupid together and then being supportive when the other vomited, of frequently walking barefoot in the rain, of often taking the bus and getting off at new places in and outside Beirut looking for new adventures, of sharing clothes, shoes, underwear, joys and tears. Just a couple of months into this friendship, even our periods started to sync.

Eventually we fell asleep holding each other. The last thing I remember before dosing off was the feel of her bare feet playing with mine. I couldn’t help but smile at how perfect the small details were.

Morning came (it was more like noon). Our peaceful slumber was interrupted. My roommate abruptly opened the door and walked in, complaining about unwashed dishes. Dirty dishes were quite a big issue then. The three of us jumped up in surprise and embarrassment. We quickly wrapped ourselves up with the sheets, while my now stuttering roommate apologized and awkwardly ran back out. We silently looked at each other for a few seconds before I burst into laughter. She was not amused. I couldn’t read her expression but it wasn’t reassuring. She got out of bed and started getting dressed, as I explained to her that it wasn’t a big deal, that my roommate is really awesome, and that she has nothing to be nervous about. She didn’t even look at me. So I just gave up and went to the kitchen to make coffee. I knew that she wasn’t embarrassed of being seen naked. She was embarrassed of being seen naked with ME.

For a few moments before I had fallen asleep I had allowed myself to think, to dream, that this night would melt into a new day and what had started out as a drunken folly would transform into something more in the daylight. Something we were both happy about. I wasn’t being very realistic.

She followed me to the kitchen a few minutes later. She had calmed down and was now wearing a sweet smile. Her revealing brown eyes, though, were filled with a toxic mixture of sympathy and fear. But revealing as they were, I still found myself wishing I was a telepath and wondering what she was really thinking.

We had a somewhat quiet breakfast, interrupted by one-syllable words like “can’t” “hard” “wrong”, and questions like “what do you want?” that hit the other person and sent back a distorted echo of “what do YOU want?”

By the last bite of Labneh and tomatoes, we had concluded not to mention the night before ever again. It was, we agreed (and by “we” I mean “she”), a beautiful, spontaneous, honest connection between two people with lowered inhibitions. She also added, almost as an afterthought, that she “wasn’t gay”. The guilt mixed with my sense of responsibility towards her made me agree with everything she said. And we left it at that.

As she left and I shut the door behind her, I couldn’t help but feel relieved that I hadn’t confessed my infatuation, that I hadn’t put my thoughts into words. But that relief was negligible in comparison to the dread that was building up in my gut. What would things be like now? Would they be back to normal, or would they be awkward? I couldn’t let myself tumble down that chain of thought, so I got dressed myself and found something to do out of the house. Best leave things to time.

-Nour

lesbian lebanon osashob

Enough with the makeup and skirts talk mom!

My parents didn’t know, so when she came over and spent the night it was just a normal sleepover. We had sleepovers often. I hated the duplicity, but I wasn’t ready to tell my parents at the time, so the girl my mom thought was my best friend was actually my girlfriend and the (at the time) love of my life.

There was this one time when she’d slept over, and the next morning we had coffee with my mom. It was pleasant; everyone was making small talk. The same topics, university and work and the weather. Then my mom, in true form, looked at my girlfriend and asked her if she was single, to which she answered yes. I hoped that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t.

My girlfriend was pretty, and dressed pretty too. Dresses and skirts and make up, not too much but just enough. She watched her figure, she applied moisturizer. “Why can’t you be more like her? ” my mother asked. Then she looked at, let’s call her Gina, and continued “I keep telling her that if she doesn’t fix herself up no one will be interested in her! She’s always leaving her hair unkempt and wearing baggy jeans! She never takes care of her skin or her face! Look at you, so beautiful. But my daughter, she’s so smart and intelligent, but she’s gaining weight and she doesn’t look after her figure. Who will want to marry her? “.

I could have died. I felt myself sinking lower and lower into my chair. Would this ever end? And Gina, she enjoyed it. She agreed vehemently with my mother, nodding her head in all the right places and beaming a great big smile. Every couple of minutes she’d look at me and throw a sentence my way like “We can go to that beautician down the street.” or “your mother is absolutely right, you’re getting older too!”.

I can tell you it was mortifying, and awkward, and I did not get to the bottom of my mug of coffee that day. There was suddenly a pressing reason for us to leave the house, right away! I can also tell you that Gina paid for every moment of enjoyment she had during that little morning chat…oh did she pay!

-Warde

lesbian lebanon osashob

Can I have your phone number?

It was a weekday evening, and I went out for drinks with a friend. We went to a cute bar that makes excellent cocktails. We sat at the bar, and quickly found out that the bar tender was new, and still in training. It was all good fun, they offered us our first round of drinks for free as she tried to mix them for us, and the waitress came up to us and exchanged some friendly banter, teasing her colleague who was struggling with a sex on the beach.

When the waitress walked away, my friend elbowed me grinning; “Are you going to talk to her?” she asked. “Come on, you wouldn’t take your eyes off of her!”. Was I that obvious? I guess I was! There was something about her I guess, the ease with which she spoke and carried herself, or maybe I’m more shallow and it was just her figure. Whatever it was, I really couldn’t take my eyes off her. Whenever she came to the bar to pickup drinks or drop off empty glasses I’d fixate on her, and it would take all my effort not do a full 360 following her with my gaze as she bustled between the tables.

My friend was having a laugh by then. She was making fun of me like crazy. That’s what friends are for I suppose. She kept urging me to just talk to the girl, but what would I say? It wasn’t a gay bar we’d gone to, it might not go over well. Walk up to a guy and tell him you think he’s cute and the worst that can happen is you get rejected, or maybe in Lebanon you’ll get called cheap too. But walk up to a girl and tell her she’s cute, well… risky.

And what if I asked her her name, or made friendly conversation with her? What if she made friendly conversation back? It could mean NOTHING AT ALL! You either cut to the chase, and bear the possibility of disaster, or you beat around the bush which really doesn’t clarify anything at all.

I’m a coward I suppose. I’m not officially out, I’m just out among friends and certain circles. The risk of some sort of unpredictable reaction was too much for me. So I just looked. And on occasion when our eyes met, I smiled and she smiled back. Then a few drinks later we left and that was that.

Oh for a reality where I could walk up to a woman and ask for her phone number without worrying about anything!

-Pixie

lesbian lebanon osashob

As It Turns Out, I Was In Love

I remember thinking she was beautiful. Not the supermodel type of beauty, not the cliche. She did have perfect teeth though. Dental advertisements perfect, and unbelievably white. And her smile ended in tiny dimples that punctuated it perfectly. I could look at that smile, at those lips, for hours. And at the time I thought nothing of it.

I remember the first time she said she loved me. I couldn’t believe that hearing those words could make someone so happy, but it can! It became common for us to exchange those words. I love you, I miss you. We did love each other and miss each other after all, as all friends do, so why not say it?

We’d spend hours on the phone, we’d text each other a hundred times a day. We’d take long road-trips and just talk. She went through some difficult times, changing jobs, family problems, and so did I. But we had each other, and that always made things better. We were such good friends. Better friends could never be found.

We’d take walks, and time would just fly past us. The sun would set and the moon would rise and we’d be lost in conversation. And one day, when we were walking, I don’t remember who reached out, but suddenly we were holding hands. From then on, we always held hands when we walked. I loved holding her hand in mine. I got butterflies in my stomach each time our fingers intertwined. But I was sure she did as well. I was sure all girls who were this close must feel this way.

Enter a male love interest. She fell for him. He was everything she ever wanted in a man, including a jerk who left her on roadsides and called me, her best friend, to pick her up. And I told myself the jealousy I was feeling was because he was a jerk, was because I cared for her and he treated her badly. And time and time again he hurt her and she fell into my arms, only to get back on her feet and walk back to him. So, after quite the struggle, I lost her, as is often the case when you don’t support a friend in her romantic choices, especially when you’re young.

And that is the story of how I lost my best friend. It wasn’t until a few years later, holding my girlfriend’s hand as we were taking a walk, that I remembered this friend and this story, and realized that she was the first girl I ever fell for.

-Yakhne